


Love for Sale

by crossingwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old love, new love, any love but true love</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love for Sale

**Author's Note:**

> Edits by [lysenes](http://lysenes.tumblr.com/post/77239540970/favorite-asoiaf-fanfics-love-for-sale-by).

-1-

_When the only sound in the empty street_  
 _Is the heavy tread of the heavy feet_  
 _That belong to a lonesome cop I open shop_

-

_“My people hold that there is no shame to be found in the pillow house.  In the Summer Isles, those who are skilled at giving pleasure are greatly esteemed.  Many highborn youths and maiden serve for a few years after their flowerings, to honor the gods.” — A Clash of Kings_

**-**

She’s always considered herself to be a pious woman, though among these Westerosi, pious isn’t the right word.  There isn’t a word in the Common Tongue of Westeros for what she is.  Faithful isn’t right, either, because it implies a loyalty to ones’ lover as well as one’s Gods.  It is at times like these she misses the Summer Tongue.

They call her a whore here, but they know nothing.  The first time she showed a man her tits and led him to her tiny bedroom where Yaya was sleeping in a corner, the first time a cityman shared his piety with her, he left a coin on her bedside table.  She did not ask it, he just gave it.  She never asks it of the men who stop in her house; her Gods would weep.  She leaves such matters to the runaway boy Pace who was taught to read by a Septon, who would have taught him other things that his Gods frowned upon had the boy not fled. 

She does not understand how men who shame the desires of the body force little boys to such extremes.  She does not understand how men can be allowed to take a body that is not given to them, how they can find pleasure in tears and in orifices, dry and tight with fear.  She does not understand why men can think only of their cocks, but a woman to do the same is shameful.  She does not understand the harshness that she has heard men say that piety requires, that it can be used to make someone learn their place.  What lesson could they learn? What lesson can be taught to one who does not wish to learn it?  She _does_ understand that what she does not understand will make no difference, and that she can only hope that she may show these Westerosi what piety truly can be.

They have many words for piety that are not ‘piety’.  They have fuck—her favorite, precise, concise; love—to vague though, much too vague; fornicate—for her piety is a sin to them, which she will never understand; bed; wench; whore; whore about; lie with… the list goes on.

But ultimately it is not about her words, or theirs, not about her gods, or theirs.  It is about two bodies pumping vigorously against one another, breath that comes too quickly, but not fast enough to be at pace with the heart, for only when one’s heart and lungs and skin and cunt are all quivering can one truly understand why the Gods must have made us.

 

-2-

_When the moon so long has been gazing down_  
 _On the wayward ways of this wayward town_  
 _That her smile becomes a smirk, I go to work_

-

_“Well, I might be.” When the girl shrugged, her gown slipped off one shoulder.  “They say King Robert fucked my mother when he hid here, back before the battle.  Not that he didn’t have all the other girls too, but Leslyn says he liked my ma the best.” — A Storm of Swords_

_-_

She hoped it was true—that the king was her father.  There was something so…exciting about being a _king’s_ daughter.  Even if you were only a bastard daughter.  And a whore at that. 

The other girls at the Peach told her she shouldn’t spread it about, especially not after what the queen did to the serving wench at Casterly Rock.  But Bella didn’t care.  The queen wouldn’t find her.  And besides, what would she care?  Bella had been born before the King had even married the queen.  The serving wench had happened after Prince Joffrey’s— _King_ Joffrey’s, she supposed—birth.  And besides, it wasn’t like she’d ever end up here, at this brothel in the midst of the Riverlands, especially not to find some whore who might or might not be her dead husband’s bastard.

 She certainly hoped so, anyway. 

Before he’d died, she’d imagined the day when King Robert, riding out to relive his victory, came to the Peach as he had during the Battle of the Bells.  He’d take one look at her, smile, and say “You’re mine, sweetling,” and listen to her talk of her life.  He’d kiss her on the top of the head when she was done, and go off with Janei or Tansy, or perhaps both.  He wouldn’t take her off with him to the capital.  That would be too hard, and the queen wouldn’t like it.  But he would send her lots of gold, and she could leave the Peach and maybe start doing something respectable.  

She still could, she supposed.  She wished desperately that she could.  Not that she didn’t enjoy herself.  She did, sometimes.  But every night—it got tiring.  And especially now, when there were soldiers in and out all the time, and they couldn’t always pay and she was expected to just strip off her shift and spread her legs.  No, better to find something respectable now.  Before the war had started, she’d saved up nearly eighty stags, though that was all gone now—taken by she couldn’t even remember which king’s men.  And she’d have to start all over again now.

But those dreams were dead now, as dead as King Robert.  But she still had the story, and it worked, bringing men into her bed.  They even paid her better, when they had money to give, because she was the old king’s daughter.  Some of them even called her “m’lady” and asked her to do “royal” things with them.  Of course, each of them had a different idea of what a “royal” thing was, but it almost always revolved around her telling them what to do.

She liked it when she got to tell them what to do. 

 

-3-

_Love for sale, appetizing young love for sale_  
 _Love that's fresh and still unspoiled_  
 _Love that's only slightly soiled, love for sale_

-

_She raised her arms and stretched like some sleek black cat.  “Sleep.  I am much better rested since you began to visit us, my lord.  And Marei is teaching us to read, perhaps soon I will be able to pass the time with a book.” — A Clash of Kings_

_-_

She is glad the little man does not wish to fuck her. 

Not because she did not like him, or think him handsome.  She rarely thought the men she bedded down with were handsome.  But because he left her time to read. 

When he disappeared into the wardrobe, off to his lady-love, she would strip off her shift, spread out on the bed that smelled of sweat and cum and pull out the large leather-bound book _Tales from Oldstones_ , and wrap her eyes around the words. 

It was a children’s book, Marei had said.  It told the story of Jenny of Oldstones, and Prince Duncan the Small.  It told of love—not as Yaya knew it, the sort of love that came from her mother’s fervor—how best to please the Gods that Yaya wasn’t even sure existed—but the sort of love that she heard singers singing about.  Love of essence, of spirit.  Love that made the heart beat faster, not because a man’s fingers were between your legs, but because his eyes were on yours and you saw yourself reflected in them, big and brown and wondering. 

Yaya liked those evenings best, when she made herself finish one page, and then the next, imagining what it was that Jenny would have felt when Duncan kissed her, and what it must have been like to kiss Jenny.  How easy it was to lose oneself in words, words, words so simple and so perfect, words more seductive than any a man had ever whispered in her ear as he caressed her breasts, his cock hard against her arse.

When she looked up at a finished page, her heart would race.  She would stretch and realize that all her imaginings of kissing Duncan and Jenny had brought the ever familiar wetness once again.  She would slip a finger down between her legs, circling the pleasure nub she didn’t know the Westerosi word for, but for which there were five words in the Summer Tongue, and she would slowly circle, smiling lightly to herself, and begin the next page.

-4-

_Who will buy? Who would like to sample my supply?_  
 _Who's prepared to pay the price, for a trip to paradise?_  
 _Love for sale_

_-_

_“My mother named me Shae. Men call me… often.” — A Game of Thrones_

_-_

Who did he think he was, locking her away in a little hole?  Just because he was some lordling, who couldn’t even stand up to his own father?  What should it matter, if his father said he couldn’t bring her to court?  What did any of that matter?  It wasn’t as though he was in love with her.  He talked like he was, to make her feel better about taking his coin and his tiny cock any time he wanted, but he wasn’t in love with her.  And what power could they exert over him through his whore anyway? 

He wanted to protect her, he wanted to keep her safe, he wanted her to be happy—well, she wasn’t any of these, that was for bloody sure.   She didn’t _want_ to be anyone’s maid.  She didn’t want to scrape and grovel and m’lady over anything.  She wanted freedom, she wanted color, texture, flavor, and she would suck a thousand cocks for it.  But he wouldn’t let her, would he?  He’d put her in a cage and keep her all to himself and wouldn’t give her anything that she wanted because why should any of that matter?  Why should what she wants matter?  He was so fucking selfish—led around by his own cock.

What did she owe him, anyway?  What had he done for her?  What hadn’t he taken away from her—because he’d taken everything. Not just the gowns, and jewels, and manse he’d given her, he’d taken away her _freedom_ , he’d taken away her friendships, he’d taken away her being able to fuck who she wanted, when she wanted, without fear that they’d end up in a bowl of brown—because she knew what had happened to Symon Silvertongue.  (How lovely his tongue had been, as well, making her toes curl with delight.)

Did he think himself wholly blameless? Did he honestly think he’d done nothing to wrong her?  Did he think for just a second that she might have come to hate him?  Because somewhere she had—probably when he made her wait on his Lady Wife.  There’s nothing to make you feel the whore quite like serving your lover’s wife.  Did he want her there, off to the side, to fuck when he pleased, but not to notice at any other point?  Was she just some part of a collection, unworthy of the Lannister attention he bestowed upon her when he got hard?  Did he think she wouldn’t hurt him, couldn’t hurt him?

Well fuck him.

 

-5-

 _Let the poets pipe of love in their childish way_  
 _I know every type of love better far than they_  
 _If you want the thrill of love, I've been through the mill of love_  
-

_“Illyrio and I selected them personally for you…Doreah will instruct you in the womanly arts of love.”  He smiled thinly.  “She’s very good, Illyrio and I can both swear to that.” — A Game of Thrones_

- 

“You want Doreah,” Andero was saying.  “She is the best, I promise.”

They said he was a king.  She didn’t know, and certainly couldn’t tell by looking at him.  Thin, he was, and pale, though those eyes were quite enough to set her tits to stiffen.

He looked at her, and she let an eyebrow quiver up, just enough to let the heat out of her eyes, the promise of what awaited him.  She was very good at that look.  Anaris had always said that she was her best student.  Doreah let a smirk cross her lips as she watched this crownless king shift in his seat slightly, leaning forward to hide the beginnings of a protrusion.

And she had won.  She always did. 

She had been the fastest to learn, the most eager to learn, and now, she would win.  She didn’t care how much money Andero would make selling her to this king.  What did that matter?  To be a bedslave to a king was hardly a bad thing—she would wear silks and golden gowns and live a long and happy life. 

And the king would never go to his own wife’s bed, probably, for he would be too busy fucking her. 

“I’m sorry?” the king said.   He hadn’t looked away from her, and hadn’t heard what Andero had said.

Yes, she had won.

“I say, you might, perhaps, try her, though you would have to pay some small advance fee.”

“I think,” said the fat magister, “that that could be arranged.”  She can tell from his voice that he will join them, and she almost sighs, but knows better.  She supposes fucking the fat man to prove to them that she is the best choice…and it’s not as though he’d be the ugliest man she’d ever taken between her legs.  Far from it.  His face was pleasing, if his body was less so.  She could work with that.

Yes, she could work with that, and if she could work with that, there would be no need for it anymore, because if she could convince this fat man to buy her for his royal guest, well…she would live a long and happy life in the arms of a king.

 

-6-

_Old love, new love every love but true love_

_Love for sale, appetizing young love for sale_

-

_“N-no, my lord.  I was t-trained.” —A Dance with Dragons_

-

It was the first time she’d ever wished she were actually Arya.  Arya, who was dead and gone and had never known that _he_ existed.

When she’d been little, she’d dreamed of being the Lady of Winterfell.  Who wouldn’t, with Robb Stark so close by.  She’d never told Sansa, but she’d dreamed of her brother and his warm smile and curly hair and big hands.  But he was dead too.  And if only she could be his Lady in death.

She was cold.  He didn’t leave her with enough blankets.  He liked the sight of her naked and shivering with goose bumps covering every inch of her flesh and her nipples so stiff he could tug them until she cried out in pain.  Not that it was pain she feared.  No, she’d gotten used to pain in King’s Landing, the bite of the whip on her back whenever she said “ _no, please_ , _no, I’ll do anything else, but not that_ ”.  It wasn’t even the cruelty, how he entered her when she was still dry, how he clutched at her throat and kept her from breathing while he spent himself, how he made Theon—poor Theon—watch.

She feared that she would endure.  She feared that, for the rest of her days, she would be no more than his whore, less even than “Reek”.  She feared that, so long as she was “Arya” (and Theon had told her that she must be), her dear _husband_ would not dare kill her, and she would live out the rest of her days in this room in this ruined castle that had once been her childhood.  She feared that she’d be here, forever, a living ghost in Winterfell.

 

 -

_If you want to buy my wares follow me and climb the stairs  
Love for sale_


End file.
